


In the Face of Horror

by ElwritesFanworks



Series: Fics that Might Ruin Childhoods [2]
Category: Babar - Jean de Brunhoff | Laurent de Brunhoff
Genre: (in a way), Affection, Angst, Animal Death, Animal Traits, Canonical Character Death, Child Loss, Comfort Sex, Danger, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Empathy, Fear, Fear of Death, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Gentle Kissing, Gentleness, Grief/Mourning, Hand Jobs, Hunters & Hunting, I wrote more elephant porn, Love Confessions, M/M, Male Friendship, Moving, Non-Human Genitalia, Presumed Dead, Secret Crush, Sex with Sentient Animals, Touching, Weird Biology, trunk jobs technically, trunk-kissing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-06
Updated: 2015-02-06
Packaged: 2018-03-10 17:20:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3298178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElwritesFanworks/pseuds/ElwritesFanworks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Hunter has made his appearance, killed Babar's mother, and caused Babar to fight him/lead him away/go missing. Cornelius and Pompadour (and everyone else) presume him dead. In the face of horror, they comfort each other as best they can.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Face of Horror

**Author's Note:**

> welp  
> i wrote more elephant porn  
> i've henceforth decided to call this ship 'pompcorn'
> 
> and yeah  
> i'm still trash

* * *

The night sky has never seemed so ominous, nor the jungle so frightening. The herd is deep, now, deep in the trees. Pompadour has never been so far into the denseness of the bush – Cornelius, only once, and this was as far as he’d gotten.

The King says they will have to move deeper still.

Somewhere, circling like a bird of prey, the Hunter is biding his time.

Or perhaps, and Pompadour hopes sincerely it is not so, (though he knows he should wish for it, for the good of the herd,) he has gone – content with his current prize. One cow, mature. One juvenile.

Grief, once distant, is now well known to the herd. It shows in the drooping of their trunks, the vacant looks in their eyes. It shows in the weariness in Cornelius’s face.

Pompadour approaches his elder in the dead of night when the moon is high and most everyone is sleeping, save for those who patrol as guards.

“What do you suppose became of him?” Pompadour asks, voice broken and hoarse. Cornelius shakes his head.

“Not here.”

He leads him to a clearing, still within earshot of the herd, but only just. It’s still closer than Pompadour would like, but it’s all he dares hope for. Privacy is another casualty of the Hunter’s bullets.

“Do you think he’s…?” Pompadour begins, but can’t find it within himself to say that small, yet crushing, word.

Cornelius has no energy left for stoicism.

“I hope not,” is all he says, sadly. He sighs, a great, rattling sound. Pompadour feels wetness on his own face and realizes he’s crying.

“He’s only a child. What kind of… evil thing could knowingly harm a child?”

Pompadour knows it’s a foolish question even as he asks it. The jungle is a realm of Nature, and there is no crueler mistress. And yet, there is something particularly horrible about this strange, new threat.

“Cornelius, suppose that it comes after us? After the others? After – after the children?”

There’s a frantic edge to Pompadour’s voice now. Cornelius shifts minutely closer, his breath warm and reassuring against Pompadour’s trunk.

“The children are safe,” he states with finality. “We will stand between them and danger.”

“But Babar –”

The name slips out before Pompadour can catch it, and Cornelius reacts as though he’s been dealt a physical blow, flinching and averting his eyes.

“We will protect what is left,” he answers at last.

Pompadour’s misery must show on his face, because Cornelius nudges the younger male’s trunk with his own.

“It will be alright,” he says softly. “I, for one, will fight to the death. I can say the same for any of the others. We will stand our ground.”

Pompadour fans his ears nervously.

“But what if we don’t Cornelius – what if we – what if _I_ can’t? Just the thought of it and I’m – I’m terrified!”

“Nonsense, Pompadour. If it’s cowardice that worries you, it needn’t. You can be as brave as any.”

Pompadour shakes his head. Cornelius strokes his face, and furrows his brow.

“You’re trembling.”

“I told you… I’m frightened,” Pompadour laments. _“And_ I’m cold.”

“Now, whose fault is that? You ought to go bed down with the others, where it’s warm,” Cornelius murmurs, and perhaps it's the tenderness in his voice, but whatever it is, it steels Pompadour's resolve.

“I don’t want to bed down with the others,” Pompadour whispers. Cornelius’s eyes widen slightly as Pompadour continues.

“I want to bed down with you.”

Cornelius mulls it over for a moment.

“You don’t have to say yes,” Pompadour adds. “I just wanted to tell you before… before the end.”

“If it is the end,” Cornelius interjects. “It may not be.”

“Ever the optimist,” Pompadour mutters bitterly. “Well… I thought you should know. Goodnight, Cornelius –”

He moves to leave, but Cornelius reaches out and twines their trunks together.

“How long?”

“It doesn’t matter –”

“How long, Pompadour?”

The younger male sighs, letting his eyes fall shut.

“Ages. Ages and ages and moons and moons. More seasons than I can remember.”

He startles, eyes opening when he feels Cornelius’s trunk touch his lips tenderly.

“Poor, long-suffering, Pompadour,” he says lowly, and there’s a warmth in his voice, alongside the sadness.

This is not how it should be. Pompadour had dared imagine, on occasion, how their coupling might come about, and it was never like this, with the weight of grief heavy upon them. They had never had to be quiet to keep from alerting the herd. They had never had to ignore that those elephants on guard could almost certainly hear them, and would know what they were up to by their laboured breathing and stifled groans. They had never had to keep their ears pricked, listening for an ever-circling danger.

But Cornelius… he is as Pompadour had imagined, as obliging and patient and gentle as any bull could be. When illuminated by the moonlight that trickles in through the canopy, he looks majestic, otherworldly. He is more sensitive that Pompadour would have expected for a male of his years, and he is the one muffling sounds of pleasure more often than not. That, too, is lovely, in its way.

Pompadour is simply happy to have this, an imperfect, stolen moment. The evil that longs to claim them will never have these minutes of ephemeral beauty. When day breaks, they will fade away as the night fades away, and if the guards do hear, they will not speak of it. Pompadour doubts he and Cornelius will speak of it. Words do not exist that would do justice to their lovemaking.

It is rushed, and over quickly, and the angle at which they bring each other off is not comfortable for either of them, but there isn’t time for anything more than this. They trace each other’s bellies with their trunks, find extended organs and rhythms to stroke to, and all it takes is Cornelius failing to catch a soft sigh of ‘my _dear_ friend’ before Pompadour’s vision explodes with the light of a thousand sunrises and a sky filled with stars.

Afterwards, they wander off a ways to wash themselves in a stream, and by the time they’ve dried, it’s morning and the herd is moving again. They catch up, then separate. Cornelius heads off to speak with the King, and other elephants of importance. Pompadour lags behind, keeping pace with the mothers and their children. He feels a pang in his heart at the way the little ones are so quiet now, how they don’t laugh the way they used to.

He set his sights on the horizon, and swears that someday, somehow, they will be free to laugh again.


End file.
